There’s a house on my street that sits completely still: it’s unoccupied, tastefully decorated, and no living breath moves in circles inside its walls. Sometimes the porch light is strategically on, sometimes the wooden blinds are raised and I can see the handsome brown leather couch, the carved wooden dining room table, the inevitable big red tin star above the empty dining room hutch. No one is inside, though. There are no bits of scattered paper on the emerald groomed lawn, no shiny silver shovel and spade accidentally left in the grass while a phone is answered from deep inside. Everything is just so, and just so still.
I did once see an older lady potting a hosta in the driveway, her silver car parked in the street, but her purse was beside her the whole time; she didn’t live there.
It’s a pretty house, kind of a brick colonial. The air is clean around it and there are magnolias out front. It always looks like it’s waiting for something and I always pretend that it’s me.
The above is by Lisa Congdon, and the art she makes strikes a deep chord with me. Reindeer, peacocks, birch trees, birds, and whales? It’s my Southern and Northern spirits all mixed up pretty. She’s amazing!!